INDIA: Face of Death

Vizakhapatnum, India: DAY 2

March 22, 2000

Horrible!

Today, after loading onto the crowded bus that would take us to the village, I realized I forgot my camera. I ran back towards the building we were staying at, and along the way saw a woman lying in the red dust by the side of the road. Two dark, bare feet poked from under a bright red and green sari.

It's normal to see people doing anything along the side of a road, including sleeping, but her feet were an angle too unnatural for her to be resting. She was laying on her stomach.

I bent down to see if she needed help, and as I rolled her over, it was horrible.

Her silky black hair gave way to a bloody skeleton for a face. I didn't understand what I was seeing. Attached to the other side of her head was a folded mess of blood and skin; clearly in the middle of it was a nose.

I let go of her and fell back onto the seat of my pants. "HELP!" I yelled, barely able to get it out right the first time. "HELP ME!... SOMEBODY HELP THIS LADY!"

Dozens of people were passing by on the other side of the crowded street. Vehicles were flying past. One middle-aged Indian man came jogging over, looking more angry than concerned.

"She's DEAD. Hit by CAR," he said in typical Indian accent, waving his hands downward as he finished, "leave her alone."

I was sweating and worried and my mind was racing. "We need to call the police!" What a horrible sight, I thought. Poor, poor lady, I thought.

"What for?" he asked, genuinely curious why we should do that.

"She has a family. They need to know what happened!" I was now standing looking to flag down any official vehicle.

"No, no. They will find her. Look," he hastily grabbed some cement chunks lying nearby and put them around her body, as if to protect her from traffic and passersby. "They will come looking for her, and they will find her. Go on, go on your way. This happens regularly." He again waved his hands, this time for me to get going.

So I did. But with one last glimpse at this poor, unrecognizable lady. When will her family come to search for her? Will they look in the right place? Will they know this is her? How could they know for sure? What will it be like for them when they see her? How could such a horrible accident happen?

And just as I asked that question to myself, a medium-sized lorry (cargo truck) flew past me -- it's hard metal mirror nicking my ear. I crouched to the ground, my heart racing. That must have been what hit her.

So, quickly I moved to the other side of the road, forgot about my camera, and got back into our bus.

God, help that woman's family. God, thanks for keeping me safe so far. God, please help India. Let this trip make a difference.

INDIA: Hot as Heck & Cornucopia of Conflicting Odors

VIZAKHAPATNUM, INDIA: DAY 1

March 21, 2000

Just got back to India. It's my second trip here.

When I stepped off the plane -- the moment I passed through the door -- it was like I walked into a wall of heat. It's so hot and humid here that it feels like I'm swimming in sunshine soup. Immediately, before taking a step further, my mind automatically began counting down the days left on the trip.

Somehow, I had forgotten how brutally oppressive the weather in India is.

After I collected my bags and stepped out of the airport, another series of blasts rattled my system: The Indian Carousel of Strong Scents. Every few seconds, rapidly rotating shots of conflicting odors fill my nostrils. One second, I smell delicious curry being cooked, the next second the smell of an open sewer, and still the next the hint of flowers and herbs. My nose is constantly doing double- or triple-takes: vexed, pleased, repulsed, appeased. In India, my beak is in constant overdrive.

India is indeed a land of stark contrasts.

Within a minute of driving toward our "motel", we pass a garbage dump, a fenced mansion with lush vegetation, and a strip of one-room stores lined by dry, barren earth. Men walk down the dusty street in suits, or in robes, or in loin cloths. Animals roam about freely: fat (holy) cows adorned with ornate jewelry; a skinny water buffalo bowed low, a horn tied to a leg. All this complicates the chaotic traffic pattern.

And everywhere I look, one of these creatures (man & beast alike) are going to the bathroom very publicly. Images and smells burned into my brain forever.

The conflicting sights of rich & poor, order and disorder, combined with the cornucopia of aromas wafting past my nose, always help focus my attention to what really matters: Scouting opportunities to serve those most in need, and encouraging & equipping local ministry workers.

I'm at my lodging for the next few days: An old mattress on a flat rooftop, surrounded by 15 other friends prepping their makeshift beds as well. Looking forward to sunset and more bearable temperatures.

This trip better be worth it. With what is scheduled for tomorrow, I trust it will be!

Now, to find a bath, shower, or at least a bucket! More to post tomorrow...

AIDS Monkey’s 7 Star Bombshell Shocker

JANUARY 28, 2007

The most interesting and disturbing conversation I’ve ever had just took place.

After a grueling follow-up journey focusing on our ongoing Pakistani earthquake relief, our small team was grateful to have a day layover in the Middle Eastern oasis of Dubai. It’s always a shock to the senses to go from the squalor of Pakistan’s remote regions to the opulence of UAE’s most visited city.

Settled in a baking, barren desert with daytime temperatures in excess of 110 degrees F (44C), this oil-rich nation drips with man-made, lush luxury. The world’s biggest indoor ski slope is set nearby a shopping area where giant subterranean turbines blow air-conditioned coolness across the outdoors.

Looking for a souvenir that won’t soon be forgotten? Vending machines sell (non-edible) gold bars by the ounce. Luxury automobiles can be purchased in under five minutes with a credit card swipe and a few signatures – and delivered to your driveway anywhere in the world within a day.

We enjoyed a superb meal in an underground restaurant, walked about the city for some hours, taking in some sights, and even stopping to pray in the name of Jesus for the only cripple we came across. Refreshed, we finally made our way back to the airport.

Breezing up to our check-in counter came an older gentleman with quite an entourage. They all wore turbans and sunglasses, with what appeared to be very expensive robes or suits. Beside their ostrich & silver-studded suitcases stood a fairly large, aluminum egg-shaped cage on wheels.

In no time at all, they were off to the gate, and as they whisked past us, through the only opening in the cage (a circular glass window with a vent above it) I could see what looked like a robed ape sitting in a small recliner.

We laughed and wondered what that was all about.

Thankfully, those men were on board our oversold flight. Two of us were upgraded to first class. The chrome dome cage was buckled in at the very front row, and the faint odor of cigarette (or marijuana???) smoke leaked from a hose connected to an overhead vent. Was the monkey smoking?

I sat next to the youngest man of the entourage, probably a teenager, who was all too excited to practice his English with me.

I told him of our work in Pakistan, helping families displaced by earthquakes (and the occasional, unfortunate misguided American bomb) to be resettled in semi-permanent housing, his eyes lit up.

“So… You are the GOOD AMERICAN… yes?”

“Yes,” I replied, ready to give an answer for the reason we share such love and hope.

When I asked him what his group was, and if he was related to the older gentleman or if he worked for him, his reply was, “both.”

And what he told me next was part of the most interesting and disturbing conversation I’ve ever had. He settled into his chair and leaned closer to me, lowering his voice.

“You are a good man, no? I think I can trust you." He waived his hand dismissively. "Our private jet is under repair, so here we are. You see the animal in the cage up there?"

He pointed. I nodded.

"It is the AIDS Monkey. You know, the monkey who started the AIDS virus. Until last week, only 8 or 11 of the world’s richest men knew where he was.

“For the past 29 years, that monkey has been kept in a 7-Star hotel room in Qatar, but now, the secret is out. So we are on to move to a more secure location.”

“Are you serious?” I asked in disbelief.

“Yes. And he is quite a character! Through the battery of tests required to find a cure, we must do our best to keep this animal alive. He is given the best food in the world, sleeps in the most comfortable of beds, and is afforded every luxury necessary to stay relaxed and entertained.”

He went on, “But he is SPOILED. Very hard to keep up with his ever-changing appetites and needs. He is very, very difficult! A prima donna, as you say!"

His eyes squinted, and he whispered the next part. "He is recluse, and party animal... I'm not sure how it started, but he is addicted to filterless cigarettes and wheat [I think he meant weed], and some pills... and not just any kind, only the best... One day he eats the rarest specialty-prepared sashimi and the next day he wants premium French cat food. If we try to give him something else, he throws a fit!

“Everyone caters to him now. Most of us live in fear; afraid if we make the wrong move he will either fire us or throw his feces at us. We bring in what is almost a parade of lesser monkeys, one or two at a time, and he either accepts or rejects them. Those he accepts are dead within weeks-- battered to death with sores everywhere. And then there are those few businessmen who underwrite everything. They come and go, too, often with similar wounds.

“So we just do what the Monkey wants, keeping him happy and alive, and once a year a team of doctors test him to find a cure.”

He breathed a sigh of exhaustion. "Now, to the next home. The next den of iniquity. How to arrange everything-- the food, the monkeys, I do not know yet. But, I think we shall manage."

I sat with my mouth open the whole flight. Hoping to catch another glimpse of this odd creature. Too many emotions. I would have loved to kill that animal myself, but...BUT for a cure, I did not.

Before I knew it, the flight was over, and I watched as a special team of agents helped escort this group off the plane and to some 7-Star hotel, or castle, or mansion who-knows-where.

An unusual, if not divine appointment. And a sign to continue praying for a Cure.

Semi-Autonomous Region, SW China DAY EIGHT

SUNDAY, JULY 18, 2004

DAY 8 ...the unspeakable

The meeting with the elders left us more burdened for this people than ever. They listened attentively, but told us to be careful what 'magic' we perform on the villagers, and that the forest spirits would kill us if we ask too many questions, including questioning the traditions passed on by the ancestors. 



We returned to our tents, and prepared to search for the jailed lady once the sun had set and the village turned in for the night. With fresh batteries in our night vision goggles, we waited. 



Sun finally set, and we quietly and quickly made our way to the small trail which they carried out their last prisoner on. Dressed in black, we were virtually invisible, except for a dull, green glow coming from our night vision goggles, which made the night as bright as day to us. 



We followed the path, seeing a few animals along the way. The going got more and more difficult. Insects, razor sharp grass, and thicker weeds with sharper thorns the further we got. Just as we were about to give up and turn around, we came to a small clearing. And there it was. 



A graveyard. Only none of the bodies had been buried.

What stench! The clearing gave way to a larger mud field surrounded by large clay cliffs on every side. The narrow way by which we came was the only way in and out. 



There they were, HUNDREDS OF THOSE BOXES, some stacked on top of each other. Bodies inside. Some skeletons, some with clothes and long hair, some looked fresh. Our translator rushed ahead of us, searching for the bean-seller. I tried hard not to throw up. 



What was happening here? What crimes were worthy of such a slow execution? Scratches on the bamboo poles and the contorted shape of some bodies revealed what frantic and persistant (yet unsuccessful) escape attempts had been made. 



Xing-ye, our translator, waived his arms to get my attention. Still trying to catch my breath and think straight, I mutterred, "WHAT?" 



Then it happened. 



He was kneeling by our lady who was left for dead. She was clutching the lapel of his shirt through the bars of her cage, no emotion left on her pale face. I staggered to him and movement illuminated the viewfinder of my goggles. 



We had been nearly invisible until I foolishly responded to Xing-ye. The sound of my voice alerted every spirit to our presence in this caged camp of death. 



All around, skin-and-bones figures erected their torsos in their cages. Some were still alive! We ripped off our goggles and pointed our searchlights in every direction. Thirty or so heads were lifted and pointing at us. Thirty or so faces resigned to the inevitability of death that they already looked more dead than alive. Sunburned, dehydrated, dried beyond repair, not even a glimmer of hope shining in one of the watery eyes. 



"Get these people out of here," I cried to our team, "hurry!"

We opened their cages, but most were too weak to walk out by themselves. Their tendons were frozen. Only God knows how long leach had been locked in a cage that was too short to stand up in, and too narrow to sit or kneel. 



We carried them out one by one -- they weighed no more than children. 



A few died as we tried to help them out. We saved as many as we could, but it still didn't seem like enough. We poured water from our canteens into their mouths, and moved their pasty lips to help them swallow it and keep it down. 



Xing-ye was frantically trying to communicate in the village dialect with Bean-seller. After a few minutes, he pounded his fists on the ground, shook his head, and came back to us.

"What did she say? What is this place?" 



He replied in his soft, Chinese-accented English, "She say, this place is for old people. No one in village society can be burden to rest of society. She say, it too bad to watch family get old, get feeble. So it better to take them here only at the beginning of old age, so family can know when and how..." Xing-ye's voice cracked as he clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, turning his head to the sky. He swallowed, turned his head to me, "They leave their old people here so they know when and how they die..." He turned his face back to heaven. 



"How can they do this? How can they do this????" He wept bitterly. 



This explained the strange absence of the elderly in the village, and the paranoia of the village elders (who themselves escaped the caged death but feared it should they lose their political position). The bone shavings and chips near a pile of skulls also explained the abundance of meat in the stew that we were so vigorously offered. No sense in thinking about that now. 



We saved who we could, making rafts from the crates and using old clothes from the skeletons to bind them together. We put the fifteen that survived on the crate-rafts, got on with them, and floated in what seemed like supernaturally calm waters downstream for hours. Until the sun came up.

We left behind a nightmare. But we saved fifteen people. 



That's fifteen people who will now have the chance to grow old. Fifteen who saw the gospel in action as they were rescued, and will hear the of the hope found only in Christ. 



Thanks to all who have been lifting us up in prayer. We return to the jungle early next month.

Semi-Autonomous Region, SW China

DAY FOUR

July 15, 2004

The jungle. It's hot. Hard to think straight. The team and I are a sweaty mess. It's been a couple of days since the last posting. Some interesting developments have taken place. Too many write.

Yesterday, we saw what appeared to be a tribal arrest and distribution of justice. A woman who appeared to be in her late 40s, whom we had come to know a bit, was taken in the middle of the night. She was known as the village bean-supplier. But evidentally a much younger woman had been prepared to take over her job. What crime she committed is not known, and her exact whereabouts is still a mystery. Though I know not the system of law among this heathen people, I do know by the terrified look in her eyes that some grave injustice had been committed. She is innocent. With tears rolling down her cheek, she silently stared at me as they took her away. And the entire community gathered in somber attention to see her carried out of the village, locked in a bamboo cage.

A curious and disturbing event indeed; tonight our team will forge our way into the jungle in hopes of tracing their steps and discovering the fate of the innocent-eyed bean lady.

And in the morning, we hope to begin our first presentation of the gospel. We have now gained the trust of the village elders, we believe, enough to bring the life-changing message of Jesus. How these people, like me only a few short years ago, need their darkened hearts awakened.

Indeed, it is hot. Time to eat some stew that is freshly prepared. Hot stew on a hot day. Doesn't get much sweatier than this.

First Entry: Semi-Autonomous Region, SW China

July 10, 2004

This is the first entry I am making in several months. As I write this, I am using my laptop with satellite link from deep inside a jungle in southeast China. The people here are very primitive. Most have never seen a white man before. They stare with wonder and amazement at our gadgets, and ask (through our interpreter) why we speak to small boxes by our heads(satellite phones).

It is fascinating to discover their culture and habits. We find it strange the lack of elderly people within their community. It appears no one is over middle age. Could it be disease or perhaps tribal war prevent most from reaching their golden years? I trust the answers to these and other mysteries will be revealed in the coming weeks.

Though we've only been here for two days now, an eary feeling has descended upon us. My intrepreter just informed me the village elders would like to meet with me and my team now.

more updates to come.... live the journey with me.... through blogspot.com

Journal and Blog Rediscovered

Welcome to friends, old and new! These past years have been an adventure shared with many of you. The older I get, the more importance I place on inspiring and equipping a new generation of missionaries. So, for starters, here we go.

Here's how it's going to work: Every day I'll post one a journal entry from a past mission, and continue in order daily, until the account has concluded.

Today, because this is the "going public" day for these lost entries, I will post 2 Journal Entries from 2004.

Looking through this treasure, lost for so long, I have a lump in my throat. reminded in detail what it was like to go years without hearing English. reminded in detail what it was like losing a teammate on the field. making the dreaded phone call to the parents. arrangements. reminded of forced briberies, guns in our faces, countless narrow escapes, seeming defeats and unsung victories. Wading through swamps, floating on uncharted rivers, near misses and emergency landings. Preaching in villages, praying for lepers, strengthening feeble hands... many won't understand, but I think you're gonna like this blog.